Crossed Paths
by leftthestoveon
Summary: Fem!lock AU where Sherlot (as you say Merlot) struggles out of a hard relationship with heroin only to emerge into the world of a man gone wrong, a killer of those graceful dancers she has watched since childhood. Will she be able to keep her life on track,or will she need help? Eventual Johnlock (Joylot) F/F and other pairings as the story progresses. Ratings subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

The Palace Theater, the epicenter of London's best performers and the aspiration of ambitious newcomers. Outside, it's proportions matched those of a city mall. Sculptures sprang up from the laid-stone sidewalk, and fairy lights danced through the trees upon arches and columns. A tired valet passed an excited couple back 9.53 in change, and they chattered on through the double doors in their most impressive clothing. A janitor pulled his waxing machine behind him as someone would drag an ugly neighbor's dead cat. As he passed through the door, The janitor's heavy duffel bag dipped, and the man's hand brushed it. The man jolted and raised his hand as if burned. He tightened his grip around his fiance's arm, where she turned to see what made him tense. the two men held eye contact for a second, then resumed looking ahead as normal. The man loosened his collar and smiled crookedly at the woman, whose lips tilted up slightly. She held his arm tighter as she walked through the theater doors, and began looking at the number plates for their seats.

There were two women seated in the rows, among the others. One was reclining, feet hanging slack to each side, hands rubbing against the warm insides of her pockets, and breathing through her scarf to warm her cheeks, which were flushed with cold. Her companion's attention was on the dancer on the stage. Her eyes were heavy, and she leaned forward with her hands steepled. She was also trying not to hear the volume of her companions thoughts, the pounding _My husband is home by now, I should leave and text him._ An urgent _How can she stand this cold? _And a more understated- no that wasn't right, she was deliberately hiding her _I'm going to peel off my skin from boredom. I don't care about this. I want to leave. _All this she observed in body language, there was no need to delve deeper. Petris deserved better than that. Petris wasn't important, so to speak, but she was company. Sharlot leaned back in her seat, and reluctantly peeled her eyes away from the stage. Low to her shoulder, to not disturb the others, she stated, "You don't see the importance of this, do you?" Petris looked over, and Sharlot had to stop her face from showing how much Petris's cringing face made her feel small.

"You see, those aren't dancers up on that stage, no. Dancers train for their whole life, not to move in a certain way, but to embody separate forms in rapid succession. The key to understanding dance is to realize that the body is the physical medium of a larger piece of art, and the art can only exist inside the performer if they are physically and mentally clay, wholly molded to the needs of the choreographer." Petris's brow wrinkled and she wasted no time contemplating Sharlot's words. The Dancing Killer was nothing to be ignored, even for a second. Petris was two years-new to Scotland Yard, having worked in Belgium's police department for ten years after she finished serving there in the British army. She had long wanted a chance to go back home, biding her time and amassing power and experience. When Detective Inspector Dimmock and Shane Colère, of a lower division, were caught in a gas explosion, her boss extended a letter of transfer, feeling confident that Petris would be a valuable addition to Scotland Yard. Coming back to London was surreal. Beautiful plazas had gone to shit, old forests had turned to suburban homes. The streets she played in as a kid had been re-paved or abandoned. She'd kept in good contact with her parents and surviving relatives in Belgium, but even when she had a week off for vacation time, she spent it on herself and her husband. Petris loved her job, but it was wearing on her.

"The thing, the, what was it. The game. The thing you went on and on about when I told you about the criminal I want caught. That is the most important thing right now. If I were the least bit interested in art, or form or whatever, I would have insisted on going dutch on the tickets. I know you're smart, that's the only reason I'm letting you in on this investigation. I'm not here to chat! Hey! Where are you going?"

Sherlot had already sprinted down the aisle and vaulted onto the stage. "My God…. That crazy bitch better not get us kicked out!" She clumsily shuffled past the seated patrons already disturbed by her yelling.


	2. Chapter 2

Petris was gasping for breath as she clambered up the stage. Sherlot's brow creased, and she pointed. An animal scream erupted from the missing footlight that had been replaced by a camera, just moments ago silently filming the ballerinas. If his operation went as planned, the killer behind the camera would choose one, slit her throat, and lay her ravaged body in a fountain as he had done once a week for five weeks. The guttural cry signaled the end of his killing spree. Sherlot felt the impact before she saw it. The stage lifted a foot in the air, and smacked down hard on the supports. There was a sickening series of cracks when sections of the wood collapsed to the smoking storage area below. Petris lost her balance and slid deeper into the blast area. Her hands searched fruitlessly for a grip, but she rolled and crashed onto the smoking floor. she was on her back, and there was a sharp pain in her thigh. She tried to lift her head up to prevent her hair from catching fire, but it was too heavy to move. she saw a man beneath the stage, burned black with the remains of a tripod camera at his feet. It was hard to breathe, and her tears were gray with the ash in her eye. The pain emanating from her back seemed to cool, and there was a darkness coming from above. Sherlot shouted from somewhere distant. She felt soft hands soothing hers, and then lifting her. With the last of her strength, she gasped "Go to Lestrade's office..he'll know what to do nex…"

Scotland Yard was humming in the tune it thought would catch London's criminals. Sherlot Holmes climbed through an empty office's window. This was not the office she was looking for, but it was the most accessible, being with an open window and currently diverted surveillance cameras. The halls were full of people who thought they had important places to go, and who paid no attention as she helped herself to a coat hanging on a coat rack and a service room coffee, keeping her head at a low enough angle to not attract attention, but not low enough to look guilty. Captain Lestrade's office would be one floor up. The cubicles on the way to the elevator were like ven diagrams of the occupant's lives. What they put into their space was telling enough, but it was what they left out that revealed their deepest secrets and motivations. There were two elevators at the end of the rows of cubicles. Stopping at the middle of the two, she started to feel more eyes on her. The collar of her pilfered jacket grew warmer. Lestrade was the object. If she was discovered before she found him, well, that might be more complicated than she was prepared for. One elevator opened and she started gathering forward momentum until she saw the crowd of people inside the compartment. _Notgoodnotgoodnotgood. _Several workers and business-types brushed past her. An awkward looking woman in a hoodie passed close to her. Sherlot felt a chill, and looked behind for her when she passed. They locked eyes. The woman was doe-eyed, clutching at her too-long sleeves and biting the side of her swollen lip. Sherlot blinked a few times, wanting desperately to focus on her task. Behind her she heard the hiss of the other elevator opening, and turned just in time to miss the woman break into a distressingly deep grin before moving on. In the lift Sherlot pressed her eyes shut, processing how many minutes she had before she was discovered. She turned around and hovered over the button for the next floor. It was already lit. She wasn't alone in the lift.

Struggling to breathe evenly, she took a sip of coffee and cringed, removing two sugar packets from the back of her pants, tearing the tops off at the same time with her teeth and poured, then gathered the trash into one hand. She looked over her shoulder to see… _oh, white labcoat. Nappy hair. Poor taste in clothes. Must be forensics, maybe short holding doctor, need more data. Approach with a stupid yet likeable personality._ "Hello" she extended her free hand and smiled. Molly held a confused half-smile until Sherlot "realised" there was paper in her mouth as well as in her hand. She gathered the scraps out of her teeth and placed the scraps in a wad on top of the coffee lid trapped under her thumb.

"Umm, Molly."

_Hooper. Nametag says Bart's, so definitely medical. Nonessential to everyday work at the station, she doesn't recognize me as a threat. So maybe I'm safe being myself. Is she-_

"Excuse me, is there something you wanted, or will you continue to stare at, um, me?"

All the synapses fired at once, and she once again joined Molly on the same plane of existence. She brought her head down to Molly's level " Looking for an introduction? Oh, ahm. So terribly sorry. Sherlot Holmes," She began, extending a twice-shy hand and a fallaciously humble smile. "very pleased to make your acquaintance, Molly Hooper."

"Ah, you must be an irregular here. See, I would have known you otherwise. Um, I work the mortuary over at Saint Bartholomew's, and sometimes the Yard needs my help." Her face darkened as she broke, "And with these murders, well, I knew one of those dancers. She was my friend. She was nice." Molly leaned in slightly, and before she knew what she was doing, Sherlot had pulled Molly close, one hand holding her shoulder, the other supporting her weight through her elbow.

I'm so sorry for your loss. I know I will find out whoever did this." Sherlot remembered how it felt to loose someoneout what made Molly so emotional, even as someone who worked with corpses for a living. A damp weight fell upon her shoulder, and she could feel every trembling breath Molly made. The elevator arrived and the door opened. But Sherlock held Molly out at arm's length, While Molly looked up slowly, slightly dazed and confused. There were terrors clinging at the edges of Sherlot's mind, and her idle wondering had caused her to almost pass the crime-scene tape she had put in her mind palace. She dare not dredge up any emotion, because whatever was beyond that point, well, she didn't want to know what it was.

"I'm-I'm so sorry for you. If you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me. Over coffee. Sometime." Molly looked up, expression changing into something else. Sherlot was already dashing out of the door.

"I'd like that." she said, as the elevator door shut her in.

The higher-ups were all stationed on the second floor hallway, along with bunker access for maximum-priority assets, and a few small hidden weapons caches. It was a lot cleaner and whiter than the first floor, though that might be attributed to the lower volume of people needed on the floor. The lighting was new, but that wasn't odd at all. Something just seemed off, she couldn't tell why. Sherlot walked into the hall, scanning the nameplates for Detective Inspector Lestrade. She came to the third office on the right, and her stomach clenched in a familiar and unpleasant way. There was a note taped beneath the nameplate, where Lestrade had written '_Cleared the entire floor for you. Knew you'd come. We need to talk.' _There was a small lamp on inside the frosted glass window on the door. Inside, Lestrade's form cut an impossibly dark silhouette in the small office. There were battered legs resting up on the desk, a display of power, maybe even boredom. The tag on the door read

_Petris Lestrade_

_Detective Inspector_


End file.
